


This Was Probably a Bad Idea, But Who Cares? You're A Vampire.

by VenomQuill



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, How much blood can you lose without dying?, Not Fiddauthor I swear, Stanley's a relatively okay cook, definitely, probably, vampire, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 10:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11530266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenomQuill/pseuds/VenomQuill
Summary: So, Stanford's a vampire. Fiddleford is still his assistant. Stanley has been called out from God-knows-where to help keep his brother in check while they find a cure. What could go wrong?Deviantart link: http://fav.me/dbgnviz





	This Was Probably a Bad Idea, But Who Cares? You're A Vampire.

Stanford stood next to Fiddleford. Fiddleford pointed to various points on the very large sheet of paper before him. Stanford concentrated on the paper. Stanley, arms crossed and eyes on the two, leaned on the doorway a few feet away. Fiddleford pointed to what looked like a flowering plant. “The nightshade family doesn’t do anything,” Fiddleford explained.

“Positively,” Stanford corrected in a tight voice.

“Oh, right. Negative side effects,” Fiddleford agreed.

A beep sounded in the kitchen. Stanley perked up. “That’s probably the chicken. Don’t break anything.”

Fiddleford huffed, “Try not to burn our meal!”

Stanford wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, I’d rather not have to smell burnt chicken for the next few days.”

“Keep it up and I’ll burn it on purpose!” Stanley yelled back as he left.

Fiddleford chuckled and turned back to the paperwork. His smile disappeared as he went back to work. “Nightshade doesn’t help us. We haven’t tried any type of weeds, poppy, or hallucinogenic plants.”

Stanford stared at the paper. “…do I want to know if hallucinogenic plants work on me, Fiddleford?”

Fiddleford shrugged. “Certain plants will knock you right out- or put you in a trip deep enough to put you out of commission.”

Stanford scoffed, “I still don’t want to smoke anything.”

Fiddleford waved his hand in dismissal. “That would be a bad idea. Anyway, as I was saying, we should target poppy flowers, next…” Stanford listened as Fiddleford spoke. However, as time wore on, it became evident Stanford wasn’t retaining a word Fiddleford said. In fact, Stanford wasn’t even concentrating on the paper. His gaze drifted up until he was staring straight at Fiddleford. More specifically, his gaze fell on his neck. Of late, Fiddleford had been very careful to keep the collar of his shirt and jacket fluffed up to cover his neck. That and he wore a very, very strong smelling mint leaf oil. Today, however, the smell of mint didn’t accompany Fiddleford too strongly. Although the sharp smell stained his clothes, Stanford didn’t care about his clothes. He could see the ruffled collar of his shirt was compressed a bit as Fiddleford’s head moved it.

Stanford grimaced and turned his attention back to the paper. Yet he couldn’t ignore it- he couldn’t ignore the growing pain in his stomach. The meager meal he had this morning was really coming back to haunt him. He’d never been a fan of beaver- even before he started drinking blood. It would still be better than having to stand so close to his partner, whose blood was the sweetest and best he could imagine. Even being near him without wearing a mask or having Fiddleford put on that mint oil was torture, regardless of whether or not he’d eaten. Yet now, hungry and nearly touching him, Stanford couldn’t ignore the pungent aroma or the nagging bite at the back of his head. His eyes wandered over to him again.

Stanford kept his mouth shut and stared at the paper. He attempted to listen to whatever Fiddleford was saying. Something about golden poppy? Or was he talking about a golden puppy? That wouldn’t make sense. “…I found some old recipes of sleeping drugs…” Sleeping drugs- that’s _exactly_ what Stanford needed. He just needed to _sleep_ more.

Stanford found himself staring at Fiddleford again. Fiddleford ran his fingers through his hair and ended up ruffling the collar of his shirt. Warm blood flowed through his neck into his head at a normal rhythm, at the rhythm of trusting and unsuspecting prey. For a moment, Stanford spaced out. When he regained feeling of the world around him, everything had changed.

Distantly, Stanford heard screaming and crashing and breaking. He held onto Fiddleford’s shoulder and arm and sank his teeth into his neck. He felt a bottle crack over his head and something hard but blunt jab his lower stomach. He couldn’t push Fiddleford down anymore. Fiddleford’s back was on the table with crinkled paper, broken glass, and snapped wood. His sense of hearing and feeling and sight paled in comparison to his sense of smell and _taste._ The metallic, sweet scent of human blood filled his nostrils. The sweet, salty taste of Fiddleford’s blood filled his mouth.

His name was shouted in multiple voices. In the back of his mind, Stanford cared. A basic instinct told him to search for the noise and find the one summoning or speaking about him. However, that could wait. His brain focused mainly on the hot blood he sucked out of his victim.

Stanford gagged and recoiled as a set of fingers hooked under his top jaw, between his fangs, and another set over his bottom jaw. The sheer strength of his attacker forced his mouth open. His prey was gone in a moment. Fragrant blood streamed down Fiddleford’s neck and over his fingers. The blood thinner in Stanford’s venom helped prevent the blood from clotting and gave it free reign to escape from the nasty wound in his neck. More of his blood dribbled down Stanford’s chin and smeared on the fingers and hands of his attacker. Fiddleford, dangerously pale and a trembling hand over his neck, stared at them.

Stanley let go of his mouth only to put him in a tight headlock. “Go!” Stanley yelled. “Patch yourself up and put that mint bullshit back on! Agk!” He barked in pain as Stanford dragged his fangs over the fleshy side of Stanley’s thumb. “Calm down, dammit!”

Although the bite of hunger no longer hurt Stanford, that didn’t mean he was done eating. Stanley’s blood didn’t taste as good as Fiddleford’s. Then again, what did it matter? Fiddleford’s blood still had him in a frenzy. That and it was still _much_ better than any type of animal blood.

Stanford twisted himself so that his cheek brushed Stanley’s side and his upper arm. He pulled himself free. Stanford turned to run after the injured party. Stanley caught him by the waist and the back of his shirt. Stanford spun around and they were both on the ground. Wood splintered and objects cracked and broke and thumped against the ground. A picture frame fell and broke on the ground as Stanley shoved Stanford against the wall. Stanford punched and kicked his stronger twin brother. Stanley did his very best to stay on top of Stanford and keep him relatively contained. However, as the bottle Fiddleford had broken over Stanford’s head landed on Stanley’s hand, Stanley brought his hand back. Stanford pushed his other hand out from under him. Stanley was only given a second’s warning before Stanford’s teeth met his neck.

Stanley was much bigger and much tougher than Fiddleford. So, although Stanford latched onto him and although he kept his grip, it was still difficult keeping his hold on Stanley. Stanford’s dwindling supply of blood thinner venom drained into Stanley’s neck. Stanford had probably one more bite after this before he would have to wait nearly four days for it to replenish itself. His body ignored the pain being inflicted upon him and instead dwelled on his desperation. He had only one more try after this and it wasn’t going to be a good one. If he didn’t use it well, he’d have to extend his period of hunger for four more days.

Stanford nearly choked on the blood he so desperately drew from his brother. Stanley struggled fierce as ever. Stanley was losing blood and fast. It was odd how Stanley seemed to stay kicking as hard as he was. Normally, the victim would come close to fainting, if not passing out. At the very least, they’d collapse and their struggles would weaken. Annoyance and exasperation wore on Stanford. The need to breath full breaths of air rather than wheezing gulps he drew in from his nose pestered him more and more. If Stanley would stop struggling, Stanford wouldn’t need to use as much oxygen trying to keep him down and he could find room to breathe easier.

Stanford felt his hunger curbed. He could continue attacking and drawing out a more excessive amount of blood to last him the next few days, or he could stop and get away. Although Stanford opted to stay, Stanley and Fiddleford didn’t seem to agree. A needle poked through his own neck. Stanford’s muscles were forced to relax. Stanley tore Stanford off him and set a hand to his own wound. Stanford, dizzy, coughed and tried to get up. Stanley pushed him down with his remaining hand and waited for the tranquilizer to fully take over before he let go.

 

Stanford’s eyes refused to open. He could feel the soft sheets under him and a blanket draped over him. He still felt cold- uncomfortably so. He rolled over and pawed at the space next to him. He could usually count on Fiddleford to be there- after Stanford had gone out hunting and Fiddleford drained a bit more of their supply of concentrated mint leaves. It was funny how he’d feel the instinctual urge to eat him at any given part of the day except at night when he was a source of heat Stanford couldn’t produce significantly.

Yet, Fiddleford wasn’t there. Stanford’s eyebrows contracted. He couldn’t even feel the remaining heat left over. His scent was dull. Stanford opened his eyes into slits. The homey brown and gold tinged blue around him reaffirmed his location being that of his room. He yawned. Fiddleford had been around here. However, stronger than his scent was Stanley’s.

Stanford opened his eyes all the way and looked up. Stanley leaned against the door. His dark brown eyes stayed on Stanford. Stanford’s heart dropped. He could see the heavy bandages that went over his neck and some over his hand and a small one on his thumb. Stanley’s skin was a bit paler than normal and he leaned a bit too heavily on the door frame.

After a minute of the twins staring at each other, Stanley piped up, “Have a nice nap?”

Stanford sat up and ran his fingers through his curly hair. “If I say no…”

“-I won’t feel sorry for you.”

Stanford nodded. “As I expected.”

“So, what made you flip out, anyway?” Stanley asked. “You nearly kill Fiddlesticks and then you turn around and try and kill me. Last time you went berserk, you got me good but not him.”

“I was trying to get to him last time,” Stanford countered lightly. “So, I wasn’t trying to… _eat_ you as much as fight.”

“Good to hear.” The venomous sarcasm in Stanley’s voice was enough to make Stanford wince. “So, what’s your problem with Fiddleford, anyway?”

“I don’t have a problem with Fiddleford,” Stanford all but mumbled.

Stanley rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah. And I guess almost killing him today didn’t mean anything.”

Stanford sighed and shut his eyes. “He’s just a human, okay? That’s all.”

“I’m a human, too, right? Or am I just not good enough for that?” Damn, Stanley’s sarcasm just seemed to get worse over the years.

“It’s not that.” Stanford narrowed his eyes at Stanley. “Fiddleford’s just… he…” How should he put this without adding fuel to Stanley’s fire… and without giving him more ammunition against his “relationship” with Fiddleford? “He tastes good.” Stanford shut his eyes. He could _feel_ the devilish grin growing on Stanley.

“I’ve been waiting ages for you to say that.”

“Shut up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of things could go wrong! Fiddleford's blood tastes the sweetest to him because, after Stanford was changed, he starved himself nearly to point of insanity. Since, you know, Vamps can't die. Fidds donated some of his blood to the cause to keep Stanford relatively sane enough to think of a solution. After calling Stanley in to stand in as Stanford's doppelganger (so that Stanford doesn't go into town and eat something), they work feverishly on a cure. Stanford hates it, but he has to eat beaver and raccoon since Fiddleford refuses to take blood from the blood banks.


End file.
